Nature Vs Nurture
by Obliquesque
Summary: The relationship between Carrot and Angua finally reaches a boiling point- but can they both come to terms with the strong influences of their past, and enjoy the present? Begun as just a quick smutty vignette for the salacious satisfaction of bursting the tense bubble between them, this story evolved into an exploration of what makes these characters really tick, romantically.
1. Chapter 1

Angua abandoned civilized knocking and drummed urgently against the solid oak with both hands, panting. _Come on, you idiot! _The wind was picking up; the clouds could part at any moment, and she could feel the beckoning moon mercilessly bright and full behind them. Rain spat against her skin, which prickled in warning. Angua clamped her teeth together in an effort to anchor herself, fighting against the growing pressure along her spine. _Not now,_ she thought desperately. _Please not now. _

The door jerked open and Carrot appeared, fully clothed but sans armor, radiating his characteristic concern for A Citizen In Distress. "Sergeant Angua! What—"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, just let me in," she growled, staggering forward and all but collapsing into his arms. She hated herself for giving into such dramatics, but couldn't suppress a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. Carrot supported her politely and slightly gingerly, as a distant uncle might accept the unfamiliar burden of a rather sticky, sleeping niece. Angua wilted hopelessly. _Damn. This isn't how I pictured it. What was I thinking? _A tiny whimper rose in her throat, unbidden.

Captain Carrot coughed. "All right… there, there…" he said awkwardly, patting her back.

Angua rolled her eyes, even while the wolf inside wagged with pleasure. The simplest touch, the most careless caress and she turned into a doting, stupid puppy? No, this would not do at all. Still, she rested her head wistfully against his shoulder. She could smell his bewilderment. It was warranted; even she knew she was acting strange, or stranger than usual for a vegetarian werewolf watchwoman in the throes of unrequited love- which was pretty damned strange, indeed.

"Carrot," Angua's voice was muffled in his vest, but the Captain thought he caught the tremor of a sob. "Please, you—"

His heavy arms tightened inexplicably around her, pressing her close—dangerously close, she realized too late. Angua groaned with frustration as the smell of him overwhelmed her; first sharp with armor polish and clean with sandalwood and lye; then earthy with hints of musty chain mail and shammy leather; and finally, beneath those pungent everyday aromas, the intoxicating scent of the man himself. _Carrot._ Her heart hammered as she drew the very essence of him in, unconsciously pressing closer against the solid wall of his muscled frame.


	2. Chapter 2

Carrot froze as Angua seemed to melt in his arms, like an unlit candle brought too close to a flame. He couldn't let her fall bonelessly to the floor, but he was becoming uncomfortably, unavoidably aware of parts of her- and himself- that he usually tried to ignore. Women in general* were just citizens, and he was there to Serve and Protect. He could carry dozens of them out of burning buildings or away from crumbling bridges all night, no problem. But Angua… well, she was different in a way he struggled to define, and it had nothing to do with being non-human. He had been to the Rim and back for her, and he still didn't quite know why. He glanced warily down at his accidental armful of pure female inscrutability, holding her (and his breath) stiffly and trying to think of an escape.

(*women in particular, on the other hand, were a closed book written in a foreign language in a locked room of a closed library in a distant city of a far-away country on a different continent, quite possibly in an alternate universe.)

He remembered with a lemon-juice-in-a-paper-cut sting of embarrassment (and also with the vinegar of homesickness on the fish and chips of his soul) the way he had botched his "understanding" with Minty- what was her surname? Rock-something, gods, it had been ages since he thought of her- all those years ago. Carrot had been barely more than a boy, but "barely more" still pointedly exceeded what the quiet dwarf community could tolerate from a human (albeit unintentional) lad of 15. At the age of 60, Minty was considered barely out of adolescence, and her parents had been furious.

The shock and disgust Carrot's own parents tried unsuccessfully to hide behind their beards had left the sort of mark on him that a brush full of red paint leaves on a bucket of whitewash. And then he had been sent away to Ankh Morpork, with the words of the only father he had ever known ringing in his ears. _Not proper. Not right._

Carrot had spent the last ten years of his life running—or rather, marching—away from those words. And now… he stole another glance at the woman clutching his vest, and gulped.

Something tugged at the edge of Angua's awareness, rousing her from her olfactorial reverie. She pushed herself from Carrot's embrace, shaking her head to dispel its cloying personal fog. She looked up into his honest blue eyes and saw, to her surprise, the conflict there. In a sudden rush of insight that nearly sent her fleeing from the room in guilt and horror, she realized just how human he really was, and had an inkling of how much it had cost him. There was something else, though. Her nose twitched. Something… _Oh, gods!_ She stared up at him blankly, and then her eyes flickered involuntarily downwards before she could stop herself.

Carrot flinched away from the trajectory of her gaze, his face reddening. "Ah, I, I didn't," he stammered, backing away until he bumped the small kitchen table. He grabbed it for support, knuckles whitening until the the wood creaked. "I mean, I—"

"Carrot," Angua said quietly. She didn't pursue him, but stayed perfectly still, more out of instinct than intent. The man looked at her like a rabbit might look at a hawk it has seen gathering carrots, potatoes and rosemary. Was he trembling? Big, brave Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson? The man who had once arrested a bloody dragon? "Carrot," she said again, taking one careful step towards him. "You… you _want_ me. Don't you." It wasn't a question.

Carrot closed his eyes, wish he could shut out the words echoing on the inside of his skull as easily. _You know how it is, son. Not right. Not proper. Her father had a word with me… and her mother with your mother. And then she had a word with me—several, in fact. It's not right. _He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned. _But… but…_

"Yes!" he burst out suddenly. "Gods, Angua, of course I want you—I always have, but—"

Angua was somehow in front of him, close enough to touch. "But?"

He _was_ trembling, his chest tight as he fought the invisible demons of a lifetime of censure and denial. The seconds stretched painfully. "You have to go," he said at last in the defeated tones of one whose worst enemy is himself. "It's not right."

It was Angua's turn to flinch. She took a step back, face first deathly pale and the next instant bright red, eyes flashing. "Not right? Why?" She demanded hoarsely. "Because I'm a—"

"No!" Carrot shouted. He closed the distance between them, grabbed her shoulders and shook them fervently, just once. "No," he repeated more softly, loosening his hold so that it slid down her arms until he took her hands. She reclaimed them with a warning growl and turned to flee, to escape the compelling earnestness of his tone, to leave forever as Angua had always told herself she must, to go back to Uberwald and never, ever think anything or anyone in the city again; but with startlingly accurate instinct, Carrot brought one hand quickly around her waist and with the other, managed to gently grasp the back of her neck. She stilled, almost paralyzed by the touch.

"Then what?" she breathed, when at last she could form the words. "What isn't right?"

Carrot lifted one shoulder, then let it slump. "_I'm_ not right." He released her nape and drew the hand reverentially through her sheet of silver-blonde hair. "You… gods, Angua, you're perfect. Perfect! But me... my father told me years ago. Not proper. The things I want, the way I think of you sometimes, I…" he trailed off, staring deep into her quixotic eyes.

Angua felt a tingle snaking along her spine, stemming from the mild pressure of his hands on her back. She could smell the musk of his desire; strong as fresh sliced apple and twice as sweet, it coiled and spread like ink dropped into bathwater, a needy blood-red tinged with violet and edged with burnt orange in the complex tapestry that made up his other scents. It had been there all along, she realized dreamily through the answering surge of her own chemical reaction; it had just been buried, or, to give Carrot his professional credit, kept in the locked bottom desk drawer of his mind. Angua sagged, an exhausting burden suddenly lifted. He _did_ want her. He always had. She allowed her head to tilt towards his touch, and drew a deep, deep breath.


	3. Chapter 3

Carrot swallowed, watching closely as Angua's expression relaxed. Simple though he was, he had known for some time that she was hurt by the way he kept his distance, but he had not dared to risk exposing (he winced inwardly at the term) himself again to the repugnance of his past. Better to stick to duty. Protect and serve. Laws and Ordinances. Keep busy, and, and, and Bjorn Stronginthearm's your uncle!

Lately, however, when he had the night off and was dutifully buffing the shine back onto his armor, his mind would wander* back to Angua. She was always somewhere on his mind, of course, but the way she manifested in these solitary hours, painted in eye-watering shades of rose and gold—drawn with surprising clarity from the few deeply shocking occasions he had glimpsed her just after resuming her human form- ye gods, what was a man—er, dwarf—to do? Even the chemical pungency of his special tin of abrasive unguent** couldn't cut the pink mists that always came with pictures like that. Carrot's cheeks flamed as he recalled one night last week when he had had to put aside his equipment and attend, instead, to something more, er, organic that nevertheless demanded polishing. _Not right! Not proper!_

(*with extreme nonchalance and a parcel wrapped in severely plain brown paper)

(**"Made with secret herbs by some monks wot live on a mystic mountain. Six dollars a jar, ancient recipe, lasts for hours, guaranteed, artificial additives included no charge! 'Ow 'bout it, Cap'n? Special to officers, just four dollars- and I'm cuttin' me own throat 'ere.")

Well, here she was. Carrot's expression firmed. He would talk with her, admit his unnatural struggle with self-control, and they could begin anew. She was his friend- she would understand, she would help him overcome the deviance of his past (up to and including the last ten minutes, which he had most emphatically put behind him now). "Ang—" he began, and suddenly forgot what came next. His eyes locked on her mouth.

Sizzling under his scrutiny, Angua stared up at him. Her lips quivered as she took a breath, her tongue darted out to moisten them, and Carrot was lost. With an oath that he could not have identified correctly as of despair, resignation or relief (though most probably it was all three) he bent down and kissed her.

_Kissed_ was too benign a word, Angua thought from somewhere inside the swirling, howling mess of her mind. A _kiss_ was, well, perfunctory; the physical expression of a verbal contract. The orally fixated equivalent of a handshake. This was no _kiss_.

Instead, Carrot aligned his face with hers as though he had spent hours negotiating the best tactical approach. Then, with the air of a Thud player moving his troll all the way across the board for the win, he artlessly breached the fragile defenses of her mouth. He did not ravage, but rather explored this new intimate territory with unprecedented care, like a conquering but budget-conscious knight picks his way through the gates of a palace he hopes to own once the battle is over. When at last he pulled back to regroup, she stayed perfectly still, her eyes shut tight. If this was a dream, Angua was having no part of waking up, just yet.

Carrot drew a slow, careful breath though his nose, and she followed suit. The silence around them vibrated like a Klatchian coffee-tester's turban while they waited, giving the universe the time it needed to come apart at the seams. When it didn't, Carrot muttered something that sounded like, "Um, I, ah, t'ellithit" and launched a second attack, this time less a thrifty would-be conqueror than a screaming D'reg equipped with a fast horse and a flaming sword in each hand. Someone gasped (neither of them were certain which, but it must have been one of them), his tongue pressed itself between her lips and Angua shuddered, sipping the sweetness of his mouth like strong liquor from a sugared rim.

Carrot swayed. He felt suddenly dizzy, and his knees seemed unwilling to support the rest of him. He wondered dimly whether he was losing the battle or winning the war. A soft whine escaped Angua, and she nuzzled his chest and wrapped her arms as far around his broad shoulders she could reach. Carrot fought down a moment of panic as her body molded itself against his with alarming speed—as though it was meant to, as though it had always been half to his whole. He leaned back, but to his utter shock found his hind brain sending automatic instructions to his hands, which obligingly cradled her rear and hoisted her even closer. Her feet left the floor, and still he leaned, until with a creak of timber and a groan, he lay back across the bare scrubbed table with Angua draped on top of him like a contented, if lumpy, quilt. Come to think of it, he realized that he must be a rather lumpy and excitable mattress, himself.

Angua levered herself up, bringing her knees to meet the tabletop on either side of Carrot's hips, and looked down at him with a gleam in her eyes. He lay still, his long powerful legs dangling limply over the side. He made no attempt to move—she didn't necessarily know what she had expected from him, but lying in bemused complacence hadn't been it. She hid a smirk. He was still Carrot, after all; but she had a few tricks up her easily-removable sleeves- and there, at least, was one advantage she'd never fully embraced under such circumstances. She did so now, shrugging effortlessly out of the tunic and vest, allowing her boots to fall to the floor with a clump, until she sat imperiously astride the Captain wearing only her collar and leggings.

Carrot's blue eyes bulged. When he made no effort to reach for her, Angua brought his hands up and onto her bare skin, herself. Carrot began to sweat. He rubbed one thumb slowly over the puckered hardness of a nipple, and reflexively tightened his grasp when she gasped. But just as she though he was finally getting the idea, he stopped dead in the water (which was not only turbulent, but of a temperature found normally inside shrieking kettles).

"Carrot?" she said, squirming impatiently atop him. "What's wrong?"

He blushed. "I… don't know what to do." he confessed, swallowing a groan as her body twisted again.

"You're doing perfectly," she breathed, leaning down to kiss him with low, warm growl of hunger. "Just let me help a bit." She slid her hands between their bodies, never breaking the kiss, and hooked her fingers into the top of his trousers. He jumped when her nails touched his skin.

"Angua, wait—"

She untied the placket. Carrot's mouth opened, but he appeared unable to make a sound beyond a feeble squeak of protest. Angua smiled, reached down, and encountered a large expanse of solid…

"Ohhh." She giggled.

"… mutter, mutter… Protective. Mutter."

"Uh-huh?"

"And Mr. Varneshi said, mutter mutter..."

"Of course." Angua folded her arms across her chest and tried to keep a straight face. "But I think you ought to take it off now. Don't you?"

Captain Carrot considered this.

Angua looked at him expectantly.

He gnawed his lip. "Are you sure?"

She blew out an exasperated breath. "Carrot, what the hells do you mean?"


	4. Chapter 4

"It's just not proper," he mumbled, a man lying on his kitchen table with his pants undone and a nearly-naked woman on top. When she raised an eyebrow, he sighed heavily and grit his teeth. "Not natural!"

"That's where you're definitely wrong." Angua swung herself off his lap. Carrot sat up and ran a hand through his clipped red hair, his face full of concern. She patted him comfortingly on the knee; a quick sniff told her he was tense, uncertain, embarrassed… but still deeply, ravenously interested. She hunkered down to remove his sandals, and when he did not object, proceeded to tug his trousers off as well, leaving his thick, hairy legs exposed to the air. This first rite of divestation complete, she crept upwards until her breasts were cradled by his knees and he could feel her breath warm on his thighs. Carrot's every muscle hummed with tension.

Angua paused for a moment, glanced coyly up at him through lowered lashes. He watched her, captivated, his tongue too thick to speak as Angua lay her cheek directly on the codpiece, exerting a minimal pressure on the mysterious man beneath it.

Carrot grunted softly at the unexpected surge of pleasure, more psychological than physical, and shifted a bit to explore the sensation. He had to admit that, despite his inclination to the contrary, nothing had ever felt quite so _right_ before. It was terrifying in its rightness, actually. Proper, well... he had a vague notion that propriety was relative to intent, and told himself that he had no idea what her intentions might be. He opted for the moment to leave that line of reasoning alone*.

(*All alone in the corner, buried under a pile of laundry**)  
(**Dirty laundry. )

He made a sudden decision and stood up, pulling Angua up with him. "You're perfect," he whispered, his hands roving down her bare back and then up her sides and finally down her front, gliding over her breasts with more sureness this time. She slipped an arm around his waist and allowed him to steer her gradually through the narrow doorway into the only other room in his lodgings.

There was a bed, rumpled on one side in a manner that suggested its occupant had sat but not yet reclined this evening. Carrot's quintessential sword leaned against the wall beside it. There was a desk, too, with stack of blank writing paper, a lump of sealing wax and a rather tattered quill resting in an ink bottle. A candle burned in a dish on a shelf beside the bed, and a set of gleaming armor was stacked neatly on a chair beneath the only window. _The window..._ Angua stiffened. _Oh no, please not now!_

"Carrot..." she said urgently through clenched teeth. "The-"

He swung her aside, leaped (protective swinging) over the bed, and had swept the curtains closed in less than a second. He turned back to her, shamefaced. "Oh gods, Angua, I'm sorry. I didn't even think. Are you all right?"

Angua ran her hands over her bristling scalp, pinching her ears to make sure they returned to the right shape. "No, I'm sorry- and yes, I'm fine." She sighed and sat on the bed, feeling drained. _Lycanthropy sure can ruin a moment_. _Damn._ "You can throw me out in a second, just let me-"

"Don't."

Carrot came around the bed and sat beside her, putting an (amusingly awkward, given their position less than five minutes ago) arm gingerly around her shoulders. She realized with a wash of gratitude and a veritable flood of amused affection that his gingerness had nothing to do with her propensity towards turning into a bloodthirsty animal, but plenty to do with her being basically female, and even more to do with her being half naked.

"Oh..." she sighed, leaning against him gratefully. He grinned, his nervousness floating like a buoy in a happy sea of heroism. Angua nuzzled his cheek, and to her surprise, he pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head.

"I love you." Carrot said quietly, his words slightly muffled in her hair.

Angua felt tears press against the back of her lids. "How can you, " she began, swallowing against the lump in her throat, "when I-"

He tightened his arms around her. "Shh."

She pulled back with mock indignation. "Did you just shush me?"

He nodded. "Yes, I think so. And do you know what else?"

"No. What?"

"I would do it again." he said seriously, tracing his thumbs gently across both her eyelids. "So you'll just have to accept it."


	5. Chapter 5

That did it. That pushed the big red button marked "DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT". That slid between the chinks in her emotional armor like a sword made of a hundred tiny snakes. Angua sobbed- she _never_ cried, but now she sobbed as though her soul had shattered, even as she leaped astride him and pressed her lips hungrily to his. Carrot's surprised expostulation was lost in her sensual onslaught, and could do nothing but give himself up to the fiery frisson of desire.

The kiss went on for some time, mutually invasive and frenzied, until Angua was panting and undulating unconsciously against him. "Oh gods, Carrot," she gasped, leaning back for a gulp of air. "If you don't take off that bloody protective, I think I'm going to die."

Carrot fought for breath, trying to gather the sparking, fizzing fireworks in his head into some semblance of rational thought. His hands had wandered off without his consent, and when he found them at last, they were clenching Angua's pert bottom as she moved it back and forth against him with every sign of appreciation. "Don't... die..." he managed, taking advantage of her backwards tilt to run his tongue over her throat and down between her breasts. She shuddered, and writhed all the more.

"Carrot, please!"

He made an anguished sound in the back of his throat. "I can't," he said in a voice thick with longing but fringed with the tattered fretwork of forbearance. "Something dreadful will happen."

"What the hells do you mean?" she half-screamed, raking her fingers down his back and hooking them into the straps of the blasted garment where they lay snug against his hips.

Carrot grabbed her wrists, shaking his head. "Angua, the last time I felt anything like this..." he hesitated, a deep crimson blush creeping up his neck. "I... it... the..."

Angua bit her lip to keep from smiling. "You've felt like this before?" she said encouragingly, twisting the ancient elastic playfully around her fingertips.

He grimaced. "No! That's just it. I haven't ever felt quite like this, it's too... oh gods, it's..."

"Intense?" she said, kissing his strained expression until it smoothed to return the gesture.

"Yes." he admitted, when they resurfaced for air, several pink-spiked swirling minutes later. "Intense. But last week, I... and it made... well, it made an awful mess."

Angua stared at him, her own cheeks starting to flame. "You went to the House of Nego-"

"No!" Carrot wheezed, aghast. "Nothing like that!"

"Ohhhh." she said, finally understanding. "You just... by yourself."

Carrot's face was almost purple. He nodded once, his lips pressed tightly together.

"And it made a mess?"

"Yes," he cringed, drowning in mortification.

"Hadn't you ever... before?" _And_ w_ho would have thought a row of dots would be so easy to pronounce?_

He looked shocked. "Of course not. I didn't mean to... at all!"

Angua's eyebrows shot up like the skirts of a Pussycat Club alumna. She leaned forward on his lap and took his face firmly between her palms, forcing him to look straight into her eyes. "Why on Disc not?"

Carrot's eyes bulged. His mouth opened and shut a few times. "What do you mean!" he blurted at last, throwing up his hands. "It isn't right!"

"But didn't you feel better afterwards?" Angua asked carefully. She glanced down at his highly suspect undergarment and rubbed his tense shoulders. She hadn't realized just how deep his aversion to his own compunctions ran. Something would have to be done.

"I, er, well- but I'm sure that the Decency Ordinances of 1389 would-"

"Oh, stuff your bloody Ordinances!"

Carrot sniffed, affronted. "Well _that_ certainly would violate..." he stopped meekly when Angua's glare reached thermic lance proportions, and cleared his throat. "Look, it's just not natural."

Angua sighed. "Carrot, the only unnatural thing about it is the rather ridiculous faces people make," she said. The man made a strangled sound at the back of his throat and covered his eyes with his hands. "Look," she said kindly, patting him on the arm. "It really isn't as bad as all that."

Carrot allowed his hands to drop, and peered at her over the tops of them. "I thought we could be, you know, friends," he said miserably. "But it's not like with Sally or Cheery, although they are fine people and a credit to the force," he added loyally. "Angua, I don't know what to _do._"

She pulled him into her arms as best she could- he was more than six feet of solid muscle even if he was a softer than an assassin's bedroom carpet- and said nothing. She just held him, held him the way she'd longed to for longer than either of them were prepared to admit, held him as though by dint of sheer silent refusal of its players to move, the bloody stupid game would end.

_Perhaps more to come... _


	6. Chapter 6

Reality crystallized around the pair of them, locked in Time's 11-dimension guest bedroom while the Possibilities bifurcated, trifurcated, truncated and even existentiated. Every eventuality, every scenario had to be true, one way or another, to ensure that the actual one really happened. Or... something like that. Humans can't really grasp the awesome expanse of infinity, but they do a very good job making it seem like they've had a proper try.

_Somewhere else in the multiverse, the wind parted the curtains and let the unforgiving moonlight stream into the room. Angua's sudden pained cry dissolved into a mournful howl of resignation, and she vaulted off Carrot's lap and out the window without a backward glance. "Angua, wait!" The Captain called urgently. He ran to the window and leaned precariously over the sill, peering into the dark streets. "Anguaaa!"_

_But there was no reply, and when he arrived at the Watch House for duty the next day, there was no Angua. Nor did she appear the next day... or the next..._

Fate is often credited for more than is her due. Choice is far more dangerous and influential than Fate, a fact which few people realize. Fate works her broad, long-term mysteries quietly, subtly, but Choice is Fate with the brakes off and the top down. Choice is Fate with all the human seasonings of cowardice, anger, desire and despair... and a stiff drink, a loaded crossbow and an emphatically short-sighted perspective.

_On another nearly identical Disc, in another nearly identical Time, Carrot sighed. "It's not right." He maneuvered Angua gently off his lap, let his eyes linger one last time over her creamy white skin, and stood up. He gathered his clothes, bowed to the incredulous woman, and strode out of the door and into the night. "Twelve o'clock!" Angua heard him call above the dull clang of a bell. "And all's... well."_

But Here, and Now...

In their sparkling palace on Cori Celesti, the assembled gods hooted and banged their fists on the table as the dice bounced and spun. At the edge of the Listening Valley in the Ramtops, the three Monks on duty glanced at each other and blushed audibly. In Lancre, a squat woman with a face like a friendly ancient apple sat down at her kitchen table, licked her quill and muttered, "Full Moon Marzipan, oh yes! That's a good one!"

And in his timeless home between the dimensions, Death paused, one calcareous finger still marking his place in the book. WELL, WELL, WELL, he said thoughtfully.

SQUEAK? Said a small figure in a miniature cowl, leaping onto the desk with its tiny scythe in its teeth.

INDEED! Death grinned. BUT... WE CANNOT GET INVOLVED.

SQUEAK. The Death of Rats pointed out, accurately.

HMM. YOU DO HAVE A POINT. HOWEVER... NO, NOT THIS TIME.

The Grim Squeaker thought for a moment, its skull on one side, leering. SQUEAK?

I SUPPOSE THERE IS NO HARM IN THAT. Death cleared his throat with a sound like the thud of a coffin lid, and opened the book again. The Death of Rats scampered up his robe and settled on his shoulder, peering down at the tome, which was starting to smoke faintly. YOU KNOW, said Death as he carefully turned a smoldering page, IN QUIRM THEY CALL IT... LA PETITE MORT!


End file.
